


Undivided Attention

by sigmaslut



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Maestro Sigma, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, if u squint, sorry dvorak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmaslut/pseuds/sigmaslut
Summary: Maestro de Kuiper was once one of the most famous orchestral directors in the world. Now, having retired, he directs your small town community orchestra. At first, you were enamored by his love and respect for the music, but over time it morphed into a deeply unprofessional crush.One rehearsal, you stick after to get his help on a difficult passage, but it seems Maestro de Kuiper has other plans.
Relationships: Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 169





	Undivided Attention

**Author's Note:**

> or,  
> prince has a conducting kink, what a surprise
> 
> anyway i love his new skin a lot

Maestro de Kuiper was...intense, to put it lightly. Intense to the point where opinions of him were black and white: either people loved him or they hated him. He came off as haughty and arrogant in his speech, and expected way too much out of a community orchestra. He was frustratingly nitpicky during rehearsals, often spending upwards of ten minutes on a single measure until it sounded just right, and every time he singled out the second violins especially your heart would race, both out of fear of fucking up and out of nervousness of his gaze. Each and every time his eyes met yours, however briefly, you found yourself forgetting fingerings and bowings and would fumble through the next passage until you could calm yourself down. 

Despite these faults, however, you found yourself totally enamored by his conducting. He  _ loved _ what he did, that was plain to see, and his critical ear was just his way of showing his respect to the music. Watching him conduct was like seeing art in motion -- it was like he allowed the music to flow  _ through _ him, like he was translating the notes on his score into raw emotion. He made it easy to understand exactly what he wanted even without verbalizing it just because he was so expressive in his conducting.

One of the pieces you were rehearsing was Dvorak’s  _ New World Symphony _ , a beast of a piece coming in just under an hour long, and the second movement -- largo -- was by far your favorite, if only because of how  _ raw _ Dr. de Kuiper made it feel. You always glanced up at him when appropriate to make sure you were following his cues, but during the largo you kept your gaze on him to the point where you almost forgot to play. He never looked down at his score; instead, he allowed his eyes to drift upward as he lost himself in the music. Sometimes, he’d stop marking the beat entirely and allow his baton to just meander through the air like Dvorak’s mournful melody. 

There was one rehearsal that stood out to you the most, however. As he approached the fermatas that signify the end of the largo, Dr. de Kuiper allowed his eyes to close, and as your bow drifted off the strings following the  _ morendo _ marked in your music, you saw his expression morph into something that communicated pure bliss. He drew out the fermata much longer than usual, and when you brought your bow down on your strings for the final time you  _ swear _ you saw tears leaking behind his spectacles. 

That moment, you think, is when you fell in love.

Yes, you were in love with your orchestra director -- a man  _ easily _ twice your age, if not more. A man who you were  _ sure _ didn’t have the time of day for a hobbyist player such as yourself. You were second violin, and not even principal -- totally unremarkable. Forgettable. You played back in high school but dropped it come university, and the only reason you joined again was to have something to do other than work. You were a far cry from the talent and skill Dr. de Kuiper was used to, having recently retired from a long and successful career as a conductor. As far as you understood it he was directing the community orchestra just...because. It made sense, then, that he wouldn’t see you as anything special. The closest person that he seemed to praise on the regular was the concertmaster, a woman who looked to be as old as he was, and you envied both the attention he gave her  _ and _ her close proximity to him. What you wouldn’t give to sit right next to him, to watch his gorgeous hands up close, to see each wrinkle on his face deepen with emotion as he progressed through each piece… but you also wanted to see if his arms were as hairy as the glint from the light made them seem, find out if he smelled like expensive cologne, and most of all: you wanted to watch the muscles in his forearms flex with each downbeat and see the tendon in his wrist pop as he pinched his baton between forefinger and thumb.

Fortunately, tonight (just for your viewing pleasure) the maestro was wearing a deep black turtleneck over a pair of simple slacks, but he had pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his gorgeous forearms. Unfortunately, tonight you would be rehearsing the other piece on the program: Steve Reich’s  _ Four Sections _ for orchestra. 

At the start of the season, Dr. de Kuiper had mentioned how much he’d wanted to conduct the piece since he first saw it premiere, and now as a retired director, he could start crossing items off his musical bucket list, so to speak. 

It was frustratingly modern, meaning it was filled with constant time changes as well as weird rhythms. No matter how much personal practice you put in, the third movement seemed to always pose a problem -- it created a soundscape in which every section bounced off one another, and the rhythms would change very very minutely across long stretches of measures, so at one point you would be in time with the woodwinds, and eight bars later you were horribly out of sync -- but  _ on purpose _ . It stressed you out to no end, and today you were doing terrible enough that your stand partner, midway through the movement, turned and gave you a dirty look that so clearly said,  _ can’t you tell how off you are? _

For the rest of the movement you ended up only air-playing and spent the time instead watching him conduct. The piece was musical in its own right, though not nearly as impactful as the Dvorak, and much more technically difficult. He adapted his conducting to fit the piece, and as such his movements were much more rigid and precise. Just like the Dvorak, however, he clearly enjoyed it -- during the powerful orchestral hits, he had a big grin on his face, and internally you had to agree. The piece was fun to listen to, and if you could only get the syncopation down, you’re sure it’d be fun to play, too. You started playing for real again at the start of the next movement. This one was way more high energy than the last, full of a cacophonous sound from the whole orchestra, and yet Dr. de Kuiper was clearly having a  _ blast _ . He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet in time to each beat, his magnificent hair flopping as he did so, and his movements were more pronounced to accentuate the full sound he wanted. When the piece ended, intense to the last beat, he brushed strands of hair from his face and recollected himself.

“Not a bad run!” he said, which was honestly one of the highest praises you’d heard from him. “Let’s go back to the second movement. There was some trouble coordinating between the marimbas and the piano, I think, right around ten or so bars after the beginning. I’ll give you three and you’re in. Ready, two, three -”

You set your violin in your lap; you didn’t play at all this movement, and with how many times he’s already restarted the measure in his attempts to get the sound  _ just right _ , it seemed like it would be a long while before you’d need to play again.

Instead, you busied yourself with watching Dr. de Kuiper. The extra time afforded you the chance to admire the flex of his bare arms, or the way the light caught on the rim of his glasses, or even the way he would absently fix his hair.

God, that hair. You had no idea how a man of his age kept his hair looking so full and gorgeous. You wanted nothing more than to run your hands through it, perhaps in the throes of passion, and mess it up. Was it as soft to the touch as you imagined it? And his  _ jaw _ \-- his jaw looked so strong and sharp, kept clean-shaven. You wished he’d at least show up to one rehearsal looking slightly rough, as you imagined he’d look good with stubble. 

He’d look good with anything, honestly. Dr. de Kuiper was the type of man that could pull any look off, in your opinion. Or maybe you were just thirsty.

Thirsty enough, apparently, that you almost missed the cue to come in. Somehow, his work on the second movement ended and he began on the third without you realizing. You cursed yourself for allowing your fantasies to get in the way of rehearsal. You told yourself you would be  _ professional _ about this, and daydreaming about your conductor in the middle of a piece was hardly a step in the right direction.

You forced yourself to concentrate, or at least did your best. Your gaze kept slipping up and lingering for inappropriate amounts of time on Dr. de Kuiper, and at one point he locked eyes with you and raised an eyebrow. You promptly looked away and willed your face to cool down, and for the rest of rehearsal you kept your face buried in your stand.

When the time came to leave, you dawdled putting things away. Even though the thought of it made your heart race, you wanted to ask Dr. de Kuiper if he wouldn’t mind working through that third movement of the Reich with you. No matter how much individual practice you spent on it with a metronome, you always fumbled through it during rehearsal, and you suspected it was because the rhythm depended heavily on other sections. Typically, this would be something you would ask your section leader to work on...but if you were being honest, you wanted  _ some _ excuse to talk to him in person.

When there were only a few other stragglers in the room, you bit the bullet and collected your things. The maestro was at the podium, marking a few things in his score, and as you approached you realized with a start just how tall the man was. At your very first rehearsal, he had pulled the boxed platform away, stating simply that he “wouldn’t need it.” It was true, you could see him fine over your stand, but at the time you hadn’t grasped how tall it meant he was. 

“Yes? Can I help you?” You were still in shock over his height that you hadn’t even realized he looked up.

“Um,” you started, eloquent as always, and felt your face begin to heat up with your nerves. He arched a brow. “I was hoping -- well, I was wondering if… I’m having trouble with the Reich, you see, and I was thinking that if maybe I could --”

He cut you off. “You’d like my help working on it, yes?” You nodded. “Very well. Come with me to the office.”

He tucked his scores under one arm, baton in hand, and began walking from the practice hall to the long hallway in the back. You followed him to one of the offices, one that clearly showed a different name plate that doesn’t belong to him. You paused outside the door, wondering if he meant to come in here, or if he was stopping in to drop off his scores. 

He waved you in. “Since I’m not officially employed by the university here, they can’t give me my own office. This belongs to the  _ actual _ director of bands. I only use it on evenings we have practice.” He shut the door behind you, and you  _ swore _ you heard the lock click, but it might just have been something inside you breaking off. After all, your heart was still racing pretty fast. “What part of the Reich is giving you difficulty?”

There was a stand in the office as well as a piano. You grabbed the stand and set your music on it; behind you, you felt Dr. de Kuiper stand over your shoulder as if to watch. “The, um, third movement. With all the different rhythms and syncopations going on, like the part when the strings join the woodwinds, here --” You pointed to a measure you’d circled thrice-over, and he actually  _ chuckled _ . 

“Ah, yes. Not surprising, considering that’s the most difficult entrance in the whole movement. I imagine you’re having problems coordinating with the syncopation in the woodwinds, yes?” He moved from behind you to take a seat at the piano. “I’ll play their part starting from three bars before. Come in when you’re supposed to.”

He didn’t even have the score laid out in front of him. He didn’t need it, apparently having memorized the whole piece, and began to play. You were struck by the width and reach of his hands, how easily they spanned the piano, and completely missed your entrance. You didn’t even bring your violin up to play. He turned and gave you an unimpressed look.

“Do you understand where I’m starting from?” Meekly, you nodded. “Good. Again, please.”

This time, you managed to come in on time, but it all fell apart not two measures later. An apology sat on the tip of your tongue, but he began speaking before you could say a word. “You’re thinking of it like a call and response,” he pointed out, “but that isn’t  _ quite _ what it is. It isn’t even an echo, it’s more like…” He paused, hunting for the right word. “It’s a conversation between sections, between the different colors of the orchestra. This is one of the few times where you don’t need to count as much as just... feel.” He rested his hands on the keys and began to play again, this time incorporating the violin part. You had no idea how he managed to put a whole orchestra in his hands, but he  _ did _ . “Does that make any sense?”

Slowly, you nodded. “I...think so?”

“Let’s try again.”

This time was more successful than the last, though you still stumbled. You had to play through it another two times before you got the passage completely correct, and even then Dr. de Kuiper had you play through it another three times, just to cement your understanding.

“Perfect!” he praised at the final run through. “Once you get the groove, it isn’t so difficult, hm? That’s what I love about Reich -- all his pieces, no matter the complexity, have a central groove to them. Figuring it out is the best part.”

Suddenly, he didn’t seem all that arrogant. There was a softness about him that you had never dealt with before, something that made him seem less like an illustrious conductor and more like an old man with a passion.  _ This _ was the man you wanted to know,  _ this _ was the reason you came to him in the first place. To find out what he was really like.

He coughed. You realized you were staring and quickly averted your gaze. “Is there...anything else you needed help with?” he asked.

You hesitated, desperately trying to think of a way to keep his attention on you for longer. “Well, actually...I don’t need  _ help _ , not exactly, but do you mind if I play some of the largo for you? I want your opinion on my interpretation.”

Bullshit. You hadn’t given  _ any _ thought to your interpretation of the largo, knowing that you, individually, were not important. Nevertheless, he stood from the bench and approached your stand again, hands clasped behind his back. You readied your violin and placed your bow on the strings, but before you could even play a note you felt a hand rest against your lower back.

“You could stand up straighter, my dear. You carry too much tension in your shoulders.”

Goosebumps broke out across your arms, but as quick as his hand came it was gone, leaving you with the aftermath of his touch. You straightened your spine and relaxed your shoulders, and with a steadying breath you began to play.

The opening notes of the main motif came out a little uncertain and shaky, but to be fair, your mind was still occupied with the missing warmth from Dr. de Kuiper’s large hand. As you played, however, your confidence grew, and he let you get all the way through the phrase before he stopped you.

“Not bad at all,” he praised, making you want to  _ beam _ with happiness. “But, I think we can do better.” He stepped close behind you, close enough that your skin prickled with his proximity. “You’re a little too lenient with your tempo. The pushing and pulling would be fine were you a soloist, but this is a  _ tutti _ line -- you must blend in with your peers.” This time, his hand fell to your arm, his chest practically against your back. “Play it again, won’t you? I’ll tap the tempo.”

You swallowed thickly. You would be able to hear him clap it out just fine, but he decided to go a far more tactile route. When you began the phrase, Dr. de Kuiper patted your upper arm in eighth-notes, accenting the downbeats with slightly more force than he used for the subdivisions. The whole situation was bizarre, you thought, but your head was buzzing with the attention, so much so that you could barely focus on the music in front of you.

Despite that, you got through it unscathed. “Was...was that better?” you asked.

“To an extent, yes.” His hand was still on your arm, he was still almost  _ unbearably _ close, and you were quickly approaching some sort of breaking point. “Perhaps we should think of this like the Reich -- it’s a conversation, if you will. Not between sections, but within the music itself.” His voice dipped a few pitches lower, and it made you shiver. “Dvorak echoes himself in the latter half of the phrase. Why don’t you try it again with that in mind?”

His mouth was right next to your ear to the point where you could feel his breath ghost against your skin. He was tall, so much taller than you, that this was  _ deliberate _ . He had to be leaning down on purpose.

On top of it all, his hands -- both, now -- snaked around your front, broad palms settling on your hips. At this point you felt surrounded, and your head was woozy with all the attention. “Well?” he prompted. “Won’t you try again?”

Emphasis on  _ try _ . You started the phrase as you did before, but then his hands started wandering, sliding up your shirt, and you broke all concentration. He hummed out the rest of the phrase as his hand explored your bare skin. You squeaked. “D-Dr. de Kuiper?”

“My, my,” he murmured. “I wondered how long it would take you to finally lose focus. I thought you would’ve broke earlier, considering all the time you spend shamelessly ogling me during rehearsals.”

Your face blossomed a brilliant red. “I-I don’t  _ ogle _ , I…”

“Oh, you don’t?” His other hand began to drift lower, teasing the waistband of your pants. “Then, pray tell, why is it that whenever I glance over at the second violins, it’s  _ your _ gaze I meet? It’s  _ you _ who looks at me like an infatuated puppy all throughout rehearsal.”

You didn’t know it was that obvious. Or that bad. Part of you wanted to crumple up and sink into the floor. The other part of you couldn’t believe that this was really happening. “Dr. de Kuiper, sir, I swear --”

“Siebren. You might as well call me by my first name if we’re to be so intimate with each other, don’t you think?”

Silly question, as you couldn’t think properly right now to save your life. His hand dipped below the waistband of your pants to tease you over your underwear and all you could do was squeak and tremble in his arms. He was truly supporting you now, your back leaned against his front, and your grip on your bow and violin tightened as you struggled to keep your voice down.

“Careful, darling. I’d hate for something to happen to that instrument of yours.” His hand delved deeper, pulling your panties aside to touch your bare cunt and you  _ gasped _ , arching into his touch. “Why don’t you play for me, hm? I think you deserve a second chance after that  _ disastrous _ last attempt.”

His delicious baritone sent shivers down your spine. For a moment, you couldn’t process anything other than his voice in your ear and his finger lightly touching your clit. This whole situation was so overwhelming that it was hard to figure out what was up or down, what was right or wrong. “P-play?” you finally choked out. “Like this?”

“Of course. You want to impress me, don’t you? Play that phrase  _ flawlessly _ and I might be inclined to reward you.”

A whine bubbled up in your throat. “S...Siebren, please. I don’t….” You stopped with a gasp as one of his fingers entered you, and you rutted shamelessly against his hand.

“The music, darling. Go on.”

It took literally every ounce of willpower you had to bring your violin under your chin and to lift your bow. It skittered across the strings in an ugly arpeggio as you struggled to find the grip strength needed to hold it properly.

“Come now.” His mouth was literally next to your ear, his lips ghosting the skin. He spoke no louder than a whisper as he fondled you, his own hardness pressing into your back,  _ very _ hard to ignore. “You’ve done it quite well before. Show me you’ve learned something today.”

Siebren certainly wasn’t making it easy, but you were nothing if not determined. You fumbled for the correct position and almost dropped your bow, but after a couple false starts you finally began the motif. Not even a full bar in, Siebren slid a second finger inside you, causing you to gasp and almost drop your bow.

“Aw, how disappointing. I suppose this means you’ll need to try again.”

He sounded so damn  _ pleased _ that you were starting to believe you weren’t meant to complete his challenge after all, like he  _ wanted _ you to struggle and fail. It was like he was playing  _ you _ while you played your violin, like he was searching out the specific string that would make you bow and break under him.

And, admittedly, you were already  _ very _ close to that point.

He was pure talent with his fingers, you discovered, both on and off the podium. You squirmed in his hold, unable to keep yourself from rocking into his touch. “Siebren,” you pleaded, breathless. “Siebren, please,  _ please _ , please --”

To be honest, you didn’t really know what you were asking for. Your coherent mind was somewhere else entirely. All you could focus on was  _ him _ . 

He hummed in your ear. “It’d be a shame to lower expectations, but I guess that can’t be helped, hm?” The hand under your shirt pinched a nipple between his fingertips. You gasped and a jolt ran up your spine, much to his amusement. “All I ask now is that you get through the opening phrase. Don’t start and stop. Just finish it, and I’ll think about letting you come. Sound fair?”

Maestro de Kuiper had to have a really fucked up idea of fairness if he thought that being fingered while playing constituted as ‘fair.’ You’d be lucky to get through a bar without messing up as it was, but the whole phrase? You whined.

Siebren clicked his tongue. “Now, now, my dear.” The hand under your shirt disappeared, only to reappear and help you situate your violin correctly. “I am being perfectly reasonable. Whether or not you come is entirely up to you.”

He circled your clit with a fingertip in lazy, languid motions. When his fingers entered you again, you stopped just to squeeze your eyes shut and bask in the sensation. He really, truly had pianist hands -- broad palms that tapered off into long, gorgeous fingers, and they felt far better than your own fingers ever had. 

“Well? Dvorak’s waiting.”

You forced your eyes open to stare at the music. Your whole body felt sluggish and taut at the same time, like you were so rigid you were moving slowly. Siebren’s touches, though not rough by any means, were deliberate and persistent enough that you would never be able to draw your focus away from them. The only solution, then, was to take the phrase slower than performance tempo. It made the already slow largo feel like a snail’s funeral procession, but you  _ did _ finish, with a few near-misses every time Dr. de Kuiper decided to change things up.

“Very good!” Siebren praised as you cut off the last note, shaky not due to vibrato but due to your own inability to keep still. “Look at you; I knew you could do it.” You let your arms hang down, violin dangling precariously in your loose grip. Siebren’s hand took your bow and violin from you and set them onto the nearby desk. “I suppose you deserve to come now, hm?”

“Please,” you mumbled. You were already so wound up, and so  _ frustrated _ from how many times you had to play that dumb largo section. “Please, sir, let me come, please, I did what you asked --”

“Yes, you did,” he murmured. His lips brushed your ear in a kiss as he spoke. “Relax against me, darling, just like that. Let go, and let me take care of you.”

If you found what he was doing earlier torturous, then this was pure heaven in comparison. Having spent those agonizingly long minutes figuring out what made you twitch, he could now direct all his attention to pleasuring you in the best way possible. Despite the confines of your pants, his fingers had no problem reaching deep inside you, and you grabbed and clung to the arm around your waist as you moaned and writhed.

“Shh, darling. Not too loud, now. There are still others nearby.” Even with his warning, however, you couldn’t help yourself. You were noisy by nature, and somehow Siebren was the best lay you’ve had in months. Of  _ course _ you were going to be loud and let him know how good he made you feel.

“Ah, fuck,” you gasped, nails digging into his forearm. The pleasure was starting to be too much, too fast. “Siebren, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna --!”

To your utter surprise, he grabbed your chin and turned your mouth toward him at the last second, muffling what was no doubt going to be a loud, long groan of pleasure with a kiss. You sagged against him, going limp even as he helped you through your orgasm. He had to wrap his arm back around your waist to support you, and belatedly you realized he was  _ laughing _ , albeit quietly.

“There we go,” he purred. You were trembling. “That’s it. Look at you, my dear. What a performance that was.”

He slid his hand from your pants. From the corner of your eye, you watched him take a tissue and wipe his fingers off. You couldn’t stand on your own merit yet; you had to lean against the wall to collect yourself.

“Did...did we just…?”

“Yes. I quite enjoyed it, and it seemed as if you did, too.”

Mutely, you nodded. Your eyes drifted over to your director’s crotch. He was clearly hard, his cock straining through the fabric of his pants. “Should I...I mean, do you want me to….?”

He followed your line of sight. “I don’t think your level of playing deserved  _ that _ reward. If you’re feeling up to it, perhaps we could revisit this section later. Maybe by next week you’ll have something new to show me.”

There was a glint in his eyes that you decided you liked very, very much. As you (lovingly, carefully) tucked your violin back into its case, you paused at the door. “Maestro?” you began, unsure if you were still allowed to call him Siebren. “For real, though, thanks for your help.”

His smirk melted into something more genuine, something softer. “My pleasure,” he responded. “Sometimes, a little personalized attention will go a long way, hm?”

You flushed. You don’t know what possessed you to do this -- maybe you were weirdly emboldened by your encounter with him, maybe you were still running on adrenaline -- but just before you closed the door behind you, you blew a kiss to him. Behind the glass, you  _ swore _ you saw his face turn red.

Already, you couldn’t wait for next week.


End file.
